Recognized as your own
by Waterfowl
Summary: Early on Lee Adama and Dee shared two traumatic experiences: the Olympic Carrier tragedy and the hostage crises on Astral Queen. Tackling the aftermath of both events draws them closer. Set on the ouside margins of 'Water' and 'Bastille Day', season 1.


**A/N: Through the earliest premises of BSG plot, Lee Adama and Dee, if not interacting directly, shared two rather traumatic experiences: the Olympic Carrier tragedy and the hostage crises on Astral Queen. Tackling the aftermath of both events could've eventually drawn them closer and, to an extent, determined the framework of their interaction in the future to come.**

**Set on the outside margins of 'Water' and then 'Bastille Day' episodes, season 1. **

**Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot points, inherent to the show, belong to me. **

**Recognized as your own***

It would have been easier to blame the residual effect from stims in his system, but he knew better. Each time sleep crawled close enough for his mind to cut slack on vigilance, honed to an instinct those past horrendous days, the shadows would draw closer. Apparitions of faces he'd never met. Thirteen hundred odd souls condemned by his own hand to haunt him. The Olympic Carrier. His father might not have been wrong as to living up and owning up to one's decisions, but he couldn't help wondering lately, if there, in fact, might be decisions one couldn't very well live _with_.

The officers' head was deserted that time of the hour. Water was still strictly rationed, but a whole asteroid of it discovered by then, drove him to bargain in favor of sparing an extra splash of cooling liquid on his otherwise burning face. Nothing else seemed to work much to ease the nauseating dizziness, infallibly accompanying his rack time as of recently.

He didn't register her presence right away or, rather, opted not to acknowledge it, years spent in overpopulated quarters having securely drilled mindlessness of extra company, in a head, of all places. It might have been the glisten of moisture on her cheeks, exposed by artificial lights, catching his attention, or the fact she was just standing there, plopped sideways by one of the sinks, doing nothing but staring his way, gaze not quite focused on his disheveled form to appear eerie.

The diminutive Petty Officer proved the easiest one to remember among the CIC crew, he still was excruciatingly finding his bearings about recognizing. Apart from it being her voice, hailing his pilots' and his own exhausted asses back on board two hundred thirty eight times through the hideous hours of incessant attacks, she also happened to be the only one, amiable enough, to supply him with a comprehensive list of names to match with a good deal of the unfamiliar faces in and out of the CIC. If he were so remotely inclined, he'd undoubtedly deem the girl pretty – no, scratch that – lovely, but, among other things, aesthetic appreciation would just escape his immediate grasp lately.

- It's wrong. – she kept mesmerizing the vacant space beyond his shoulder.

- What is? – the pathetically apparent stupidity of his response didn't fail to astonish. What frakking _wasn't _wrong in their universe those days?

- It's wrong, that no one blames me for the Olympic Carrier. You, sir, the Admiral, President Roslin – you all blame yourselves. But _I_ was the one to lose it on the jump. If I hadn't…

He'd had enough by then. Gods, he was in no capability to deal with another pity fest that late at night. As if he hadn't got plenty of that on his own platter! What didn't fail to wonder him, though, was the all but greedy protectiveness, rearing instantly whenever distributing guilt over Olympic Carrier was concerned. To the point he was seriously considering to tattoo culpability over his frakking forehead if for no other reason than to make sure no one kept bringing up how much it _wasn't_ his fault.

He moved a couple of steps closer, working his features into a chastising frown, ready to tell her off for claiming a share in matters of guilt she had no way of knowing the first thing about. His bulkier frame towering over her, he had to gulp down a helping of his best Captain Tightass rebuke, when she spoke again, meeting his eyes for the first time since he entered the venue.

- Will you ever forgive me, sir?

The fluid, persistent earnesty in the suspiciously glossy gaze he found himself staring into for a longer while, than was necessary to process the message, struck him profoundly. Deeper still, struck the unexpected, almost tantalizing levity, the naïve simplicity of suggested solution ensued.

Indeed, his father, the President, himself, were seeking absolution on the tragedy, as a way to undo or, rather, do away with the dire loss, but it occurred to neither of them, so far, to ask for, or grant forgiveness. What if by forgiving each other they could somehow, sometime, eventually arrive at forgiving themselves? He'd spent so much of his life entangled in blame or anger, or both, the promise of relieving sensation rang all but foreign within his gut.

Her lips felt warm and soothingly compliant, as he reached down silently, closing the distance between them in a deliberate, however devoid of urgency, motion. That was not about desperation or need, nor was it about oblivion. That was the closest to deliverance he could offer and, incidentally, the closest to deliverance he could allege at the moment. Issued and received with surprisingly benevolent acceptance.

She didn't stir or utter a sound, as he released the clasp on her upper arms, meant to hold her in place, and set towards the hatch, without looking back. He knew nothing had happened, once he stepped outside. Not really. He knew there was nothing to ever be mentioned. He also knew he'd be able to conjure some real sleep now, after all, in the few hours left till CAP. And maybe the next night too, were the Cylons so agreeable as not to show up.

* * *

Ouch! That hurt. The deeper cuts on his cheek bone stung profusely, when dabbed with an antiseptic soaked wad. Petty Officer Dualla's ministrations over his thoroughly battered countenance were deft and, it appeared, a tad too on the stern side to his liking. Being sore as Hades from the Astral Queen inmates' well placed an a lot more ferocious punches didn't very well help matters with boosting up tactile enjoyment either.

Zarek was adhering to his word, or rather, the conditions he'd avowed to carry out at gunpoint, and his people were signing up for the water mission right that moment, under Billy's watchful eye. The President's order of screening the volunteers, just in case, was still valid, last time he checked. Cally was safely off the ship and, hopefully, into Galactica's medbay, by then. Starbuck was out and about with her Marine squad, supervising security and previously non-incarcerated personnel evacuation.

They couldn't leave just yet, before all the mandatory procedures of easing the prison craft into the loving embrace of the fleet were over, but things seemed fairly quiet and under control enough to permit himself an indulgent moment of slouching back against the CIC railings, with a grunt. His whole body was stiff from a day's worth of tension and quite a heavy beating, if he were honest. The head was spinning, each spiral sending queasy twists to his stomach and bright stars wouldn't stop dancing behind his eyelids, once the latter drifted shut on their own accord. From the overall feel of it he'd earned himself a trip to the medbay too, but that would definitely have to wait till he was debriefed by his father and the President as to the most recent update on the deal with acquiring the Astral Queen manpower. Now, _that_ was gonna be one Hades of a tea-party, he reckoned, too exhausted to wire himself into trepidation just yet.

Petty Officer Second Class, in charge of streaming comm traffic with Galactica, approached then, amidst his groggy reverie, with a first aid kit and a rather resigned air about her. Whence a new jab of pain jolted him into awareness, he caught himself dumbfounded by what unmistakably appeared to be frustration in the look she sported. Not that he would've anticipated outward hostility or lack of compassion, but scorn was still, somehow, a lot less welcome to handle. He regarded the girl for a while longer, as she set to the task of unwrapping some band-aide to dress the nastier of his gashes without as much as meeting his stare or minding his cringes. From the way her fingers tore at the vacuum cover it would seem she had it in for the offending piece of gauze or for his wounds.

- You have something to say, Dee, go ahead.

He hoped the warning was spelled loud and clear enough in his inflection for the Petty Officer to take her cue and knock off whatever unasked for attitude she was up to. He was far from being in the mood for another confrontation, let alone with a junior enlisted, of all people.

- With all due respect, sir, I think you shouldn't have let him go. Zarek.

He nearly choked on appalled indignation, sitting up through another stifled groan and giving her an openly ominous once over.

- Of course you do, don't you? And what would it have gained us, but a mass slaughter and a riot?

He caught himself making a rather wry mental note that was hardly the last time the argument on the issue would have to play out. He might as well hone his stance to a semblance of logical perfection, before going in front of the 'Grand Jury', comprised of Commander and the President. The point seemed to hit home, for she fidgeted ever so slightly, hands hovering in midair with a tube of ointment for his bruises. He allowed himself to go as far as to register amusement at the sight of the frown shifting from disdainful to despondent over her youthful expression.

- He's been in jail for terrorism for longer, than I live! He's a threat to the fleet, at large like this.

A sigh was the closest to an adequate response he could summon for the time being. Truth be told, he wasn't even entitled to carry out the discussion. He was in charge of the mission, the choice was his and if he'd learned anything from his father so far, second-guessing one's command decisions on the spot was not the soundest of combat tactics and more often than not got people killed. If only opting against second-guessing failed to get them killed just as well… He forced down another aborted sigh.

The catch was, what transpired that day on Astral Queen, in between him and Zarek, was hardly combat. At the very least, was not supposed to be. And had every potential to ensue long-lasting consequences, affecting the life of the fleet far outside the framework of warfare or military matters. Were Dee here right and were Zarek to indulge his revolutionary streak further, the inevitable casualties would be _his_ charge, no less so than the doomed souls of the Olympic Carrier.

- He's a lot more dangerous in jail, than left to his own devices, you see. If he goes to run for office and gets flushed, no one would spare his allegations a second thought the next morning. If he keeps playing martyr from inside the cell, the myth of 'Tom Zarek' would outlast the man by decades, and we'll never see the end of it through public discontent, if we're even to survive that long at all.

She was silent for quite a while, eyes trained alternately on his grazed knuckles or her own hands, still fumbling with the clutch of the med-kit, brow creased in rumination. If anything, he found himself a bit more apprehensive of her upcoming feedback, than was plausible to anticipate, given their respective ranks.

- So, he has to fail the elections in order to become harmless? Sir?

- Something like that, I guess. – he was aware wishful thinking was all but a luxury, granted their circumstances, but incidentally, wishful thinking was all there was available, for lack of any more solid prospects.

- It makes sense, sir.

Relief at her reply, seeping warmth somewhere deep within, was a tad too unexpected, to make him jerk away from the next pry of her determined fingers over a humongous swelling bruise on his shoulder. He had to be certain the faint grin, that little rhetoric victory of his scored, bore a lot closer resemblance to a wince.

- Wish I managed to make as much sense to my father and President Roslin.

- You can do it. – The obvious lack of facetious admiration beyond confidence in the voiced assertion brought him to steal a glance her way, bewildered, if not completely self-conscious.

- You think? – he knew he sounded as doubtful as he looked.

Weary too. Most of the Galactica crew had, apparently, yet to learn how tryingly obstinate Commander Adama could be on matters of going or acting against his expectations. Somehow, he had an innermost hunch, their differences aside, President Roslin would opt to side up with his father on that one. Frak! He couldn't bet what bugged him most in all of it – that it was bound to even _be _about picking sides, or that his father was actually right that it ultimately came down to just that.

- I do, sir. You've got Zarek to oblige. That beats taking up a Commander and a President with no track record in manipulating public opinion for decades.

To smile tugged rather painfully at his barely beginning to scab notches, but it was worth to go ahead with it, anyway.

- If you say so, Petty Officer, than it must be true.

He wished. Oh, Gods, he wished.

* * *

*****…But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do -

determined to save

the only life you could save.

(Cf. 'The Journey', by Mary Oliver)


End file.
